Vodka and Red Wine
by LSgrimm91
Summary: In 1969, the Soviet Union took possession of the Stargate. In 2004, Major Samantha Carter is summoned to the icy North to make it work, under the watchful eye of her protection detail: Colonel Jack O'Neill. A dramatic turn of events has our heroes running for their lives and hiding from their growing feelings. AU Sam/Jack
1. Prologue

**A/Ramble: I thought I'd throw in a Prologue for you all so we can wrap our heads around exactly why the Russians ended up with the Stargate. Although, since this is so short, I'll throw this out with the first chapter. But this is the beginning of a long awaited tale! I've been so excited. Please note, I wrote this after Chapter one, so the style in C1 is different to this. I'll explain that when we get there. Also, all the spoken Russian has the translation following it. I did it on Google, so please restrain the flames if you actually speak the language. Also, here isn't much of it in the story, so don't let it put you off. But please, naslazhdaĭtesʹ!**

~ Prologue ~

_3rd August, 1969_  
_Washington DC_

"Toropitesʹ!"

It wasn't the first time Senior Lieutenant Artur Lyutenkov had been nagged by his commander during this mission and the first time had made him anxious enough. These assignments were hard enough without the scathing reprimands. On a four-man team operating overseas, in what was widely considered enemy territory, the tension was already high. In part, he was accustomed to these working conditions; it wasn't his first time on American soil, but even he was struggling to carry out a mission he knew absolutely nothing about.

This could be a suicide job for all they knew. That would be his fate if they were found. Surely a Russian spy would receive no better treatment here than an American would in his homeland. So, in time such as these, one must put their trust in their leader. If only he had a more approachable commander than Major Chekov.

After almost nine months in this country, this was the first time he'd actually seen his teammates. In the carefully guarded warehouse, that was rather deserted once they passed through the doors, the sound of his native language was decidedly foreign to his ears.

Paulkin nudged his elbow.

"Ne usnutʹ teperʹ..." _Don't fall asleep now..._

So he fell asleep once on a mission; surely Paulkin was over that by now?

"Vy khotite, chtoby ya razbudit vas?" _Do you want me to wake you up?_

Apparently not.

"AYE!" Chekov snapped at his subordinates, waving them impatiently to him. He was standing behind the tallest crate Artur had ever seen. Or the widest. The _biggest_crate he'd ever seen.

"Paulkin, Poĭdi, prinesigruzovik i prinesti yego, chtoby na yuge dverʹ." _Go fetch the truck and bring it to the south door_.

The four men froze at the sound of a door opening and closing. Every man took a deep calming breath when they saw the US Army corpsman approaching them with a hastened pace. The Major calmly squared his shoulders, tugged on the bottom of his US Air Force uniform shirt and gave the corpsman a friendly smile.

"Yes, Corporal?" he greeted the younger man with a perfectly southern American accent.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but you're not supposed to be in here."

"I think you'll find that we are," he smugly grinned, pulling out a thick wad of folded papers. Forged, of course, to help them 'move' this crate to the East Coast, then ship it out to Hawaii, Sydney, Territory of Papua, Singapore to Saudi Arabia, shift across to Pakistan, then pull it across the border into Afghanistan and then it was easy sailing up to Moscow.

That was if it all went well.

"I see. Well, everything looks to be in order." Looks can be deceiving, Nitwit. "Is there anything else you'll be needing Colonel Martin?"

"If you could bring the truck from the movements, we'd appreciate it, Corporal."

"No problem, Sir."

Once they were alone, Artur couldn't help but ask the question he'd probably be denied an answer, but figured it wouldn't hurt to try.

"Can I ask what this is, Colonel?" It's strange to call his Commander a Colonel, when in their own Ground Forces, he was a Major. Maybe Artur was bitter about being a lieutenant in an Airman's uniform.

"Vorota k zvezdam." _A gate to the Stars._

~ VRW ~

**Right, now go read the first chapter. If you feel so inclined, please leave a little review for this too. Pretty please? I had to do some research on Papua New Guinea, so double check before you tell me I got the title wrong. Separate territories until 1975.**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/Ramble: now, as I was saying, cause I'm sure you've come straight from the prologue, this was written before the prologue. So this and the epilogue will have the following slightly poetic style. I believe the new word for that is 'swag'. Poetic swag? No. Just... no. Anyway, welcome to 'Vodka and Red Wine', abbreviated from now on as VRW. I do hope you enjoy this, I know some of you have been waiting a while for it. I really don't want to disappoint you. I'll shut up now. Enjoy!**

**~ Vodka and Red Wine ~**

_3rd August, 2004_  
_Washington DC_

She runs because it's the only way she can escape this feeling of utter entrapment.

_She is not free._

Even in her picturesque abode, with her fiance, Sam feels older than she should. Every morning is a birth into emotional asphyxiation. Out here, she knows the man she associates with her home is becoming unbearable. It's only during these moments that she allows objectivity to bleach her perspective, lest she becomes trapped in a world of her own making where figments of her idealistic imagination roam freely. She's not willing to put any labels to it, since it may define her failure too clearly. In her profession, she feels the lack of challenge in abundance. There's nothing she wants to latch onto; nothing that captures her attention.

Her feet pound onto the unforgiving pavement and she relishes the sharp burn of the frosty morning air down her throat. The world around her spins in streaks of charcoal, khaki, and cerulean. This is when she takes some semblance of control. Where she can dictate every movement and - barring divine intervention - guarantee the outcome. She can run fast or jog slowly; she can deviate through town or the park; she can even dodge and skip every crack in the cement should she desire. For this gasping sense of liberty, she'll forgive the cold temperature.

It's only when she's run herself to exhaustion, when she's lying on her porch, or living room floor, or sitting beneath the stinging spray of her shower that she feels alive; the hammering in her chest and molten blood coursing her veins. She feels it. She's able to appreciate the heavy air flooding her lungs like cold water to burning skin. That is, until Jonas appears.

He isn't controlling in the traditional sense or _overly_ demanding. But she does feel far too needed. Despite the way he makes her feel like he depends on her, she's acutely aware of his ability to manipulate. She knows, in reality, that she's been trained to depend on him on him over the course of their 'relationship'. He needs her to be a certain way. For all her confidence and military training, she continues to strive to fit into his definition of what she ought to be. It's only now she's notices how often his opinion is the only one that matters. That should have meant something to her by now. Pitifully, she's in such a situation that she ignores the alarms such a realisation would set off. They do not set off either the fight or flight reaction. But she's waiting for the sign.

She is a runner. Waiting in suspense at the starting line for the thundering crack that signals her chance to flee. Where she'll run, she doesn't know. To some place, some time, _someone_ that everything this point in time isn't. She hopes the directions will come with the starting gun.

For once, she'd like to depend on someone upon her own accord.

She's enough of a feminist to want to stand on her own two feet, but dreams of a relationship where the dependence is mutual, yet not debilitating. They would be able to function normally by themselves, be whoever they wanted to be and when the situation necessitated... _lean_ on one another. Confide in one another. Protect and angst over the other's well-being.

She's not sure how far she's run today, but by the burn she feels in her straining muscles and the invisible chain constricting her chest, it's farther than usual. Her house is in sight and though her interest is peaked by the very official looking black sedan parked out the front, her pace neither falters nor increases.

As she approaches the driveway, one of the back doors smoothly swings open. Now she permits herself to slow to a walk, her eyes critically taking in the United States Air Force Major standing before her with a very thick folder in one hand bearing the distinct _'CLASSIFIED'_ stamp.

"Major Carter." He greets her without a smile; there isn't a hint of uncertainty or query in his slightly gravelly, but strangely pleasant tone. She doesn't expect him to question her identity. The Air Force makes it their personal business to know every intimate detail about her life.

"Major Paul Davis." He offers his free hand to the open door. Strangely, it's more appealing than the prospect of passing the threshold of her own house. "Please." His manner is courteous and respectful, but she knows it's part of wearing the uniform.

She slides in anyway.

She expects the car to commence pointless laps around her block and allows the inappropriate disappointment to fester, but never be seen, when the driver steps out.

"I'm here to inform you of your new assignment. You're to be deployed to Russia for an indefinite period of time."

Russia?

"I'm not officially permitted to tell you that this assignment is non-negotiable. I can, however, tell you that this is of the utmost importance, and a matter of national security. Particularly to the scientific branches of defence."

_Your country needs you_. The age-old aphorism sold to millions of servicemen to make them snap to attention and swear their lives to Uncle Sam. The good Major continued;

"This may be difficult, but I'll need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before I can give you any details of this assignment."

At this, he carefully pulls a crisp sheet of paper from the folder and produces a pen from beneath his jacket. His offering of both was about her accepting the assignment, rather than learning more. Sign her life away... or sign onto a new one? It's the whistle calling her to the starting line.

Take your mark.

"Will you accept the assignment?" He asks, tilting the pen towards her enticingly. No bull. He expects her to decide here and now. That decision comes to Sam easily and she's not ashamed about it. She takes the pen.

_Run._

~ SJ ~

The snow on the screen flickers and spins before his drying, unrelenting eyes. If not for the television so faithfully comforting him in the piercing silence of his house, the room would be an abyss. A brown glass bottle of beer hangs over the edge of the worn sofa, clinging only to the oil and grease on his fingertips. This is his ritual. The time he dedicates to a God he's still trying to decide if he believes in.

He did terrible things before Charlie. He's still doing terrible things in this non-life after his son's tormenting death. Answer the call. Covertly take out an enemy to save the great Red, White and Blue, and the peace of mind of its citizens.

Jack has learnt to put his faith in the orders. Trusting that what he's doing is worth the cost of his soul. He'll go out and complete a mission, but as it has been for the last nine years, he doesn't care if he comes home or not. His perception of time is decaying with him; every day and every mission bleeds into the next and into the previous.

Every night he weighs up possibilities in his mind. Not the alternative outcomes of the accident that took his little boy, but whether there was a reason for it. On one hand, he hates the higher power that took his son. Some nights he'll scream to high heavens and destroy parts of his house in pure rage. On the other, he consoles himself knowing that it may have been Charlie's time. Early as it was, if it wasn't his gun, it could have been something else.

Other nights, he denies the existence of that higher power completely and accepts the incident as something that just happened. That it really was an accident that had no significant effect on the operation of the Universe. But sometimes he can't believe that.

Tonight, he wonders if he'll ever find something to pull him out of this ritual. The proverbial voice telling him it's okay; that he's forgiven; that he is loved and allowed to love again. In this silence he wonders if he could hear it. Maybe he had sunken too far below the cloak of his dark thoughts to recognise such a thing.

On the table in front of him is a manila folder containing his next assignment. Russia. He doesn't care where he goes anymore, or for how long. He'll arrive on base ready for action. There have only been a handful of occasions in the past when he was called upon for bodyguard work; it generally isn't offered to full-bird Colonels. The human shield. It seemed fitting for a man that didn't care for his own life and would only be able to justify his suicide if it was to protect someone else.

He's considered taking his own life, but it would be an insult to Charlie's memory. The only axiom that keeps him here. But even that doesn't stop him from accepting the most dangerous assignments available or taking risks he really shouldn't. Somehow, Jack always comes home. He's been left for dead before and it's only his need to make his peace with the man upstairs that lures him back. Just one more night of staring at the snow and _maybe_ understanding where it all went wrong.

Jack continues to stare at the television set, blindly lifting the bottle of beer to his lips to finish the drink off. He shifts his leg and the minute snapping of dying arcs of static electricity beautifully, divinely and captivatingly, illuminate his battered flesh. He presses the button that's been teasing his finger for the last few hours and says the same thing to the God he may, or may not, believe in that he says every night.

"Amen."

~ SJ ~

**Beddy boo's for Grimmy goo! Goodnight!**


	3. Chapter 2

**ADI! GO STUDY, RIGHT NOW! What did I say about reading FanFic!**

**A/Ramble: Sorry about the above comment. The person in question gave me permission. Well this will be interesting. Chapter 2! Do note, this will revert to my normal, more casual style; the slighty poetic stuff I usually reserve for prologues and Epilogues. But I'll do my best to make it good. Warrant Officer's Honour. Although, this story is in first person. I'm not used to this style, which may be apparent for a little bit. I'm currently without beta at the moment (Scary!) Please forgive me and... Enjoy!**

~ 2 ~

I can't pull my scarf tightly enough around my neck before I can feel the restriction of blood to my already anxiety-charged head. In my defence, I've made a point to venture out on the coldest days of the last month with less clothing than I would have liked, but it feels like a very weak attempt to acclimatise myself to a place like Russia.

In the beginning, when I stepped out of Major Davis' shining black Air Force vehicle, I jokingly considered taking a trip to some kind of mountain retreat in the North most part of Canada. I'm known to have good ideas, but at the time, that wasn't one. Now, it clearly was. I hate the cold; there's no two ways about it.

The only heat I'm able to reflexively muster is the blush in my cheeks whenever the friendly Major offers up a slightly flirtatious comment, only a smidge beyond professionally propriety. They aren't actually suggestive or anything; for the most part, they are admiring compliments, but after my abrupt - and cathartic - separation from Jonas, I'm still training myself to accept these attentions. It's nice. Nothing will come from our playful and cheery conversation, but it's a breath of fresh air compared to what I'd grown accustomed. I'm still running from my life here, I know that. I don't care. I wasn't really living; simply existing. I may be running from one thing, but surely I'm heading towards something more.

The only reason there are two Major's standing completely exposed to the cold wind on an almost bare tarmac, rather than on one of the two aircraft is because, for one, we are feigning patience as we await the arrival of my 'Assistant'. This is a fabrication of course. Officially Colonel O'Neill is my bodyguard, but for the sake of politics, he's accompanying me as a linguistic and personal assistant. A full bird Colonel assisting a Major... when pigs fly. The second, and more important reason, is that due to a technical malfunction - an oil leak - I'll be taken on another plane. The delay may give me frostbite, but it may be better than crashing into the Pacific. Maybe. The latter would be warmer.

"Looks like the Colonel's finally found the tarmac." A bump to my shoulder halts my morbid thoughts of doom and draws my eyes to the little jeep whizzing across the grey nothingness. Neither occupants are wearing their hats - foreign object damage was a shared point on paranoia amongst Ground Crews - but the passenger had sunglasses on and his eyes gliding over the aircraft. That must be the Colonel. The man has grey hair and I have to stop myself from instantly equating this to old age and lack of ability; I have to remind myself that this man must have a lot of... I'll use the word _experience_.

The vehicle drives straight towards us and the wind precedes it with the distinct smell of consumed fuel and what may be one of those little pine trees one sticks in their car. A freshly opened one, by the strength of the scent. It slows to a halt and sure enough, swinging from the jangle of keys is a green pine tree. The Colonel sets his sunglasses upon us.

"Majors," He gruffly greets us, practically jumping out of the jeep and swinging his bag over his shoulder. His bag is oddly small for an indefinite trip. He's also carrying his Peak Cap with a folder in his free hand. He must be one of those Colonels that wouldn't be caught without it.

I do this when I meet people with whom I must spend "_an indefinite period of time_". Trying to pick up titbits of information, read body language and decipher manners of speech.

"Colonel O'Neill..." I huff, though it seems to float away and disappear into the icy winds.

"Nice to meet you Major... Or do you prefer Doctor?"

"Major, thank you, Colonel. It's a pleasure to meet you too."

What I'm sure is going to be an awkward silence descends upon us, luckily the co-pilot sticks his head out of the door to the aircraft to announce our need to board. The Colonel gives us a nod, then steps around me. I take a moment to say goodbye to Davis; I would like to consider us acquaintances and he's stood out in this cold weather when he probably didn't have to. I'll admit that when I first met him, I didn't have a high opinion. Five weeks and frequent briefings have thawed our conversations to friendly, but conservative, banter. I might miss him a little.

"Thank you, Paul. You look after yourself." I smile, hefting the strap of my laptop bag higher on my shoulder.

"Pleasure's all mine, Doctor," he smiles back. I've told him on several occasions to call me Sam; _sometimes_ he complies. "I'd wish you the same, but the Colonel will do it for you." He chortles and looks past me briefly. "Good luck. We'll be expecting your report and you'll probably be hearing from me in the future."

That sounds promising.

I nod and can't fight the need for the warmth anymore. I turn around and not four feet behind me stands the Colonel, his eyes impervious to the drying wind. Obviously he's decided to start working straight away.

"Ready, Major?" He asks, though the way he says it suggests there is a specific response to the affirmative expected.

"I'm ready, Colonel."

He steps back only to wait for me to walk past him. I get the feeling I'll need to get used to having this man standing in my shadow for a while. Like I need another man looking over my shoulder the whole time...

"Ha!" I say aloud as I step up to the Gulfstream - a four, as far as I can tell - and suddenly realise that I've voiced my exclamation. Rather than stop and look back, I turn my tiny outburst into the pretention of a sneeze. I don't care if the Colonel bought it; he didn't say anything so I don't make any comment or gesture.

As we settle in to begin taxying, it occurs to me that I've learnt nothing about the Colonel. Apart from the fact that he seems to exude a dark professionalism and takes this assignment seriously. Those two basic assumptions tell me two more things about what I may expect, excusing anything else I may learn about him: that he lives for his job and that is all I am to him. A job. An assignment. Even worse... _a pay check_. Despite the fact that I can't afford to think in such a way, nor am I really licensed to do so when I don't know the man, but I suddenly don't really like him.

Standard procedure dictates that I should have been familiarised with my bodyguard's profile prior to now, but that wasn't the case here. I didn't know his identity until this morning. The level of secrecy assigned to this posting is insane, but all the more interesting.

"Is there anything I should know about you, Colonel?" I try to sound nonchalant while locking in my seatbelt and casually throwing one leg over the other in an effort to get comfortable. Or look it. The Colonel merely chuckles hollowly and coolly swipes his glasses from his face and hooking them on the zip of his utility jacket.

"I'm sure you've already got me all worked out, Major."

As if I'll admit to being abominably ignorant.

"I'll be busy enough as it is. I thought you'd spare me the legwork." You wouldn't believe I'm proud of my slight witticism. I kind of am, mostly because such sarcasm wasn't practiced during my tenure as Jonas' other half.

"Then, no. There isn't much you _need_ to know. Just that you can trust me to ensure your safety at all times. _That_ is all you need to know."

Well, look at that: pigs _do_ fly...

Looking out the window as we reach the end of the runway and turn around to begin the takeoff, I fear this is going to become a long and very quiet journey.

"I trust you." This isn't said with as much feeling as it should, but I'm not quite prepared to say the words in earnest yet. I trust him to keep me safe; he's issued to me by the US Air Force and the military is the primary shareholder in my personal faith.

"Good. Makes my job easier. Is there anything I should know about you?"

"You haven't been extensively briefed already?"

"I have. That doesn't tell me the way you take your coffee, favourite colour or sporting team. Does it?"

It's only in spite that I coolly snap back, "Black, two sugars. Blue. If I had to pick a team... Broncos."

It's only after that sharp response that I realise I've given a lot about myself away, apart from the specific answers to his clearly rhetorical question. Not just the essential information to aide him in his job, but personal insight. Like my temper and what it will take to get on my nerves.

I'm still looking out the window when he says something. I don't catch it over the crescendo of engine noises, but I turn back to see him looking ahead with a hand reaching across the aisle. I look at it like it's an alien object, then back up to his face, which he finally turns to me. It's not filled with apology or vulnerability, but is very vacant. This is an improvement on the steely expression he's been wearing since he exited that jeep, so I'll take it.

"Jack."

I shake his hand.

"Sam."

I didn't think about his name. He didn't offer it on the tarmac, he was _that_ distant. Now I know it, he's suddenly gained a heartbeat.

I was right when I said the ride across the Northern Pacific was going to be quiet and boring, but I no longer dislike the stoic Colonel who is content staring out at the snow. My feelings are perfectly neutral. I can't say I like him, but nor do I dislike him.

Eventually we'll arrive at Lipetsk Air Base, roughly two hundred and twenty miles south of Moscow and begin working on a device acquired on a dig in Egypt. We're expecting a civilian linguist to fly in within a week. Doctor Daniel Jackson, I believe. Maybe he'll be easier to get to know than the Colonel.

~ SJ ~

**I hope you weren't too shlavelled by the change; it will go back to the narrated style only in the epilogue. This was also my first real attempt at first person present tense, as I mostly work in third person past tense. I don't know what **_**'shlavelled'**_** is, but I'm looking at my 38th hour without sleep. It's a funny story, I swear. Sounds Yiddish to me. Review! The Divine Miss Grimm beseeches you!**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/Ramble: I miss my beta :( Whenever she goes away, my appreciation increases exponentially. Maybe she does it to keep me humble... I dunno. Already exceeded recommended maximum intake - twice - of energy drinks (working night shift, need to change sleep routine) so gonna pound this out in one hit and probably post it straight away. Back to my first point; Adi, hurry up! MSK = Moscow Standard Time. ****Naslazhdaĭtesʹ****!**

~ 3 ~

_1708h (MSK)  
Friday, 20th September, 2004  
Lipetsk Air Base, USSR_

I'm barely asleep when I begin to feel my feet sliding forward on the nicely carpeted floors and my seatbelt pull tighter around my waist. I know we're beginning our decent and will be landing within the next twenty minutes, so it's with great protest that I stretch and begin to organise the little pile of what I can really only call 'stuff' on the chair beside me. There's a vast array of cords, my laptop, half empty bottle of water and an emptier sandwich container among countless miscellaneous items. Clearly, I'm not the neatest person.

I can easily ignore the wave-riding sensation and jolt of landing. I'm used to flying; the Air Force requires frequently moves between bases and travel to several weekend conferences, so the body is used to it. The Colonel is undertaking a similar task across the narrow isle, though his collection consists of a book and a newspaper. I don't care to ask what the book is.

"I'll head out first and meet the Colonel first. You'll need a jacket." My companion lazily gestures to the thick black jacket hidden under my slightly more organised pile, then continues down the aisle and sticks his head into the cockpit to speak to the pilots. The first thing I see when I look out the window is a thin sheet of crisp, fresh looking snow and evidence of a strong breeze. The second thing I see is the inside of my sweater as I'm pulling it over my head.

Two men are waiting inside an open hangar; it's impossible to see their rank with the dusting of snow accumulating on their shoulders as they walk out onto the tarmac. One is older, perhaps closer to Colonel O'Neill's age, while the other is much younger. Being a woman, it would feel like a heinous crime to ignore the latter's handsome features. He'd be taller than me, which is saying something since I'm certainly not a short individual. The hair sticking out from under his furry ushanka seems to be cut to military precision and that jaw couldn't be more perfect. It's enough to make me move a tiny bit faster.

~ SJ ~

"Major Carter;" the older man greets in a heavy accent, shaking my hand when I've finally braved the outside world, "Colonel Alexander Chekov. This is Captain Marko Mikheyev." He tilts his heard towards the younger Captain, who smiles my way politely and gently grasped my hand. They're practically burning my frozen digits and envy threatens to colour my skin; I'll never get used to this coldness.

"It's great to finally be here." I smile to both men, who pick up their stony expressions as soon as the pleasantries of welcome are over.

"If you are ready, we shall have your luggage taken directly to your rooms while we go to dinner. I imagine you have not eaten since leaving the States."

Colonel O'Neill looks to me for the answer, which is surreal in itself.

"That's fine." I agree. Colonel O'Neill opens a hand and although I'm not sure where to go, I step off and head towards the hangar with Captain however-you-pronounce -his-name by my side. I can hear the Colonels behind us talking about the security that has been organised and whether we'll have time for a brief tour of the base. We won't; it will have to wait for morning. I'm surprised when the Captain begins to speak in a very deep, strangely hollow voice.

"Doctor Jackson is due to arrive next Saturday. You will have this week to meet your associates and familiarise yourself with the project. I hope you will enjoy your stay here." This last bit is offered in a gentler tone, as if he is being careful with his potentially booming voice. "I will be liaising on behalf of the Colonel most days, so please, if you need anything, you need simply ask. Your team has been anxious for your arrival. This level of cooperation can only be a step forward for relations between our countries."

I've already heard all of this. As the project has remained in the hands of the Russian military since the artefact was first discovered, the pool of scientifically qualified personnel was limited. Many a time have I heard how important my position here would be. Technically, I would be offering my experience and expertise on a device that could open stable wormholes. It sounds ridiculous, but the chance to see my own theories in action was too great a temptation. So on Monday, I'll join a team of the USSR's finest military scientists, linguists, engineers and archaeologists - among many other disciplines - to try and make this device work. In exchange, the US military will take a share in what we learn and, depending on our findings, the chance to participate in further study.

Of course, I've just managed to condense countless lectures, meetings and briefings into something a little easier to swallow.

There isn't much to this base really. A pair of airfields and a cluster of buildings on the north side, but looks can be deceiving. A small bus picks us up outside the hangar and slowly drives us along a series of one-way streets through the base in the dimming light. We arrive at the mess hall (I'll pick up the Russian equivalents as I go along) and vacate the bus, when Colonel O'Neill briefly touches my elbow while our guides are hanging up their ushanka's and coats on some of the many hooks in the foyer of the hall.

"I'll join you a little later. Stay in the mess until I return." He turns to leave but I manage to catch him before he takes more than a few steps.

"Everything alright, Colonel?"

"Just checking out the rooms."

There's a lot more than that, but he doesn't need to explain. He'll be checking the luggage, security and communications. Everything to ensure I'll be safe. But shouldn't I be safe on base? If that were the case, the Colonel wouldn't be here. Which leads me to conclude that I need to be protected from... the Russians? That's ridiculous. Regardless of my internal questions, I nod and watch him go until I hear Captain Mick, as I've dubbed him, calling my name.

~ SJ ~

Dinner was very good, but I wasn't sure what I was eating until halfway through the meal. It was a stragonov, but I clearly wasn't paying much attention to it at first. It wasn't ignorance or bedazzlement of the new environment, but the amount of people that came up and introduced themselves between bites. I've already met two people with whom I'll be working, along with several other technicians whose path I may cross. It must be the uniform. It's strange seeing dress uniform's that aren't my own, but I have to remind myself that I'm the foreigner here. The one that stands out.

At least they have a bar attached to the mess.

Colonel O'Neill returned towards the end of my dinner, offering very little conversation but a magnificent show of consuming an unnatural amount of food than shouldn't have fitted onto one plate. The Captain, on the other hand, was quite friendly and though I spent a notable amount of time simply listening to that _accent, _he managed to hold my attention for most of the dinner when I wasn't meeting curious personnel. He's given me permission to call him Marko off hours, which I store away for the future. After dinner, our guides take Colonel O'Neill and I to the bar, which is really more of a club with the two dozen armchairs and sofas scattered in small circles around the room, before giving us their apologies and leaving.

"Care for a drink, Colonel?" I ask him. He tilted his head and then gently nodded once.

"Sure. When in Russia..."

I'm lost when the Colonel leans on the bar and so fluently throws out the phrase, "Stakan vodki, pozhaluĭsta..." Then turns to me with a look that asks what I would like.

"Um, just a glass of red, thank you." I hesitantly reply, not quite sure to whom I'm placing the order.

"...Ikrasnoe vino dlya damy. chto-to..." The Colonel looks at me again, then to the barman. "...sukhoe. klassicheskiĭ."

The barman returns with a glass of red wine, a dry one I find, after a testing sip, and a shot of vodka with ice for the Colonel. We move to a pair of chairs with a chess board on a coffee table between them, though the Colonel isn't in the mood to play. It's a shame; the set is made of polished stone and looks quite stunning. It's been set up and looks like it must have ended since the queen is lying down. The silence is a hair short of awkward on my side, but he looks relaxed and calm in his chair.

"You chose well. This is nice." I thank him, lifting my glass a little.

"I asked for blue, but they were clear out." He remarks in a completely serious manner, so insipidly droned I nearly miss the humour in it. He begins moving some pieces on the chess board around in slightly familiar patterns, only then do I realise he remembered my remark about my favourite colour. I'm not sure what to make of it.

~ SJ ~

**Ushanka's are the round, furry beanie things worn by the military during winter. In case anybody is curious. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to work. I don't think we ever learnt Chekov's first name and I cannot find it anywhere, (I was going to call him Boris LOL), but liked Alexander. If I'm wrong, tell me and I'll happily change it. Peace and Love!**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/Ramble: There is insufficient room to tell you about the last month. Hiatus totally over. I have to write any way to get my typing speed up again. Life caught up to me (quite rudely) but I know I have to finish these stories. ****Naslazhdaĭtesʹ****! **

**~ 4 ~**

_1841h (MSK)  
__Saturday, 28th September 2004  
__Officer's Club, Lipetsk Air Base, USSR_

When Marko advised me that my team was anxious to meet me, he _may_ have twisted the truth. A lot. While they were very welcoming for the first fifteen minutes, it's no secret that I've had to prove myself to them. I've forced myself to ignore the constant feeling of isolation and, fortunately, I can focus heavily on familiarising with the computing systems and bordering infinite amount of data on the device.

The device itself is far from anything I ever imagined. It's a rock. That's not quite true. It's a ring made of an intricately carved, but unknown, material encasing the strangest kinds of technology I've never dared to conceive. I can't wait for Doctor Jackson's analysis.

Doctor Jackson - Daniel, upon his insistence - arrived after lunch today. The poor man's suffered the barrage of briefings and though he too cannot contain his obvious enthusiasm, he is equally unable to hold his liquor. He's hovering on the edge of tipsy and at times had me trying desperately to hold back an embarrassing bark of laughter.

Luckily, Marko has always been there to should me, should I _actually_ fall.

While my eyes are - at this exact moment - on Daniel, my attention rests mostly upon Marko. Every now and then they will drift to Colonel O'Neill, who has found the comfortable solitude of a book in the corner of the room, but mostly they are on the handsome Russian.

"I do not understand." Marko frowns and shakes his head, though the hint of a smile graces his lips.

"What is there to not understand?"

"I do not understand how you can believe his accent was real. It was terrible; he's Swedish. Why do you think they did not give him many lines?"

I wave my hand to dismiss his argument and take a sip of my wine. "You may be right. But when you look like _that_, who wants to hear you talk anyway?" Somehow we slid into a deep discussion about Dolph Lundgren's accent in the fourth 'Rocky' film. I couldn't help it; as soon as Marko told me that he liked to Box in his down time, the movie was first thing that came to mind.

"Eh... all sovetskiye lyudi look like that under their winter clothing."

I'll have to assume he means 'Russian men'... and he says it _so_ absolutely that I actually believe him for a few seconds. Instead, I cough. Like a lady, of course.

"It displays my people as _grossly_ antagonistic." If his voice wasn't so deep, I swear Marko just sneered.

"It's just a movie. Besides, you've been an excellent host so far."

"Spasibo. We try our best." He touches my elbow even though he has my attention. "I should like very much to take you into town to one of the bars. Lipetsk has a great collection of local spirits..."

I pause for a moment. Surely he doesn't mean "...Moonshine?"

"You are not ready for that. We will start you off slowly."

"I'll hold you to that then."

He smiles at me and I can literally feel the warmth. Sensing the start of one of those 'moments', we both look to Daniel, who, as a civilian, is quite free to socialise with the few serving women. They appear to enjoy his company well enough. Again I muster the energy to turn my head just that inch further and the Colonel's familiar posture meets my eye. He's all the way across the room, so I'm easily thrown off kilter when his eyes snap up and his gaze pierces me, making my stomach turn to a ball of tightly bound knots.

~ SJ ~

Several weeks pass and while we're no closer to making the device work, we certainly understand a great deal more about it. Daniel has been of considerable help, but I can tell he's becoming a little frustrated by the limitations imposed upon him. In all honesty, there is nothing resembling Egyptian glyphs on the device, so whenever he is handed a piece of data that warrants his expertise and asked to form an assessment, it leaves him partly bewildered and partly intrigued.

He's not the only one that is treated this way.

There has been the odd occasion when some of the data is kept from my eyes. Full disclosure was part of the deal, so I don't believe my Soviet counterparts when they shake their heads ignorantly and tell me the information is unrelated to the project, contains private research or whatever excuse they can so easily formulate.

At least, that's the reason I'm taking deep calming breaths from behind my desk as another 'access denied' message flashes annoyingly across my screen. I don't want to look at my computer for a moment lest I hurl it across the room in a totally disgraceful fashion, so I look to my assistant-bodyguard-translator-shadow.

I'm not exaggerating the use of the word 'shadow'; the Colonel is every part discreet. I'd forget he was even there across the room if not for the odd occasion when he comes across with a document or something to make him look like he's _actually_ assisting me. He's good at that too; playing the part of the faithful sidekick.

"Still locked out?" He asks, not needing to look directly at me to know he's being watched. He's a bit of a ninja like that.

"Am I ever not?" I sigh, leaning deeply into my chair. I smooth my hair with a slightly aching hand. "You don't think..." I hesitate to ask, but I've toyed with the possibility since Daniel unhappily asked exactly _where_ his services were needed. The Colonel looks up and raises his eyebrows a fraction. I look out the open door to the lab and see my Soviet counterparts bustling around the desks.

"...Think it's time for a coffee break?" I hope he gets the message. He looks to the door, then to me and gives a curt little nod. As we walk through the lab, I try to monitor the attention I give my peers. Avoiding their eyes, or staring too much, would, in my mind, would let them know that I have concerns.

Fortunately, the small lunch room is bare and as we stand shoulder to shoulder, my not-too-low whisper may go unheard by anyone but the Colonel.

"I get the feeling that they aren't telling me everything. There are holes in my theories but they seem a bit unfazed. Does that make sense?" I begin, spooning roughly ground coffee into a cup and then handing the jar to him once he puts the sugar pot back.

"I've noticed. There is a lot of attention going into the devices structure, rather than function. Notice how they seem to be working longer hours than we do?"

Another thing I can't ignore.

"I think it would be best to just keep going like normal."

"Keep asking questions." He's taking too long to stir his brew, but taps his spoon on the rim of the cup, abruptly ending our little insurrection. A voice from behind causes me to jump, though I'm annoyed that the Colonel is perfectly unperturbed by the deep booming voice of Marko.

"Doctor Carter!"

I've narrowly missed spilling boiling coffee over my thumb but manage to smile for the younger man. Don't get me wrong, I'm starting to love Marko's company, but his presence has knotted my stomach; it's certainly not in a good way. The Colonel glides past us without sparing the Captain a glance though he turns back to pin me with a casual, but purposeful stare and taps his watch. After hours. I get the message.

I give my attention to Marko, though he seems to be waiting for something.

"I'm sorry?" I shake my head and lick my lip. He can only chuckle - which, from a man like him, sounded quite foreboding - and smile widely.

"I was wondering if you felt up for a trip into town tonight."

Oh... that. It's not that I don't want to go, it's the fact that this won't be a group outing and I'll be unable to explain Colonel O'Neill's necessary presence without exposing his true purpose here. I've already put off this get-together (it's _not_ a date) with flimsy excuses.

"Um..." _Smooth_. "I'm sorry Marko. I can't. The deeper into the research we go, the more work I have to put in after hours."

I really want to sound sincere but I was never a good liar. I'm relieved when he nods in understanding. "It is fine. Maybe when your contract expires... I am certainly not going anywhere!" He laughs again, but I'm not quite convinced. "I am taking up your time. I am sure you have much work to do." With this, he gives me a slight bow and leaves without another word.

That is the first time the words 'contract' and 'expire' have been near each other since I've been here. The obvious questions of my supposedly 'indefinite' assignment here distract me as I lean against the sink, tapping the side of my mug; I barely notice Colonel returning to the room until he's right in front of me.

"Carter?"

I'm brought back to reality and don't say anything, but actually manage to look into his eyes. This eye contact is very normal, but usually there is also a conversation going on at the same time. I seem to be easily distracted today, because my head is swimming with questions but I manage to take note of now nice the Colonel's eyes are. Very soulful and make me crave chocolate.

I have to get out. Now.

My mind is conjuring thoughts alien to my mind that I do something so out of character such as fleeing. Wonderings about what it would be like to spend some alone time with Marko, what kind of man the Colonel is and what life would be like with either of them. I blame these outrageous thoughts on the years of deprivation when I was with Jonas.

So I run again.

~ SJ ~

**Not quite where I wanted to go, but I can just write another chapter to get back on track.**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/Ramble: Anyone else play Minecraft? Enjoy!**

~ 5 ~

_0731h ( MSK)_

_Friday, 19th November,2004_

_Sam's Room, Lipetsk Air Base_

"Brain, brain, go away..."

I'm so over this headache. The fact that I resorted to painkillers this time around is a testament to how much this one hurts. The general feeling of illness in my stomach, I can overlook. In normal circumstances, my pain threshold is quite good. I can ignore the aches and discomforts that would cripple most hypochondriacs. Suck it up and get over it, I'd say to them. I've tried subjecting myself to that mantra, but damn it, this is truly painful!

It feels like a needle poking and prodding a little to the right of the top of my head; it's in such a specific spot, rather than an all-over ache; it's sharp and makes me want to curl into a ball to squash the sting. I settle for smacking a palm to my head when the pain jabs.

The prospect of not being able to work today irritates me like an itch I absolutely cannot scratch. I will not succumb to Man-Flu. I'm better than that. I'll chew on fifty aspirin if necessary but I WILL NOT... Oh, screw it. The Colonel will be wondering where I am and he'll put in my apologies. My Russian counterparts will hardly notice.

Did I lock my door?

"Ugh..." The groan that escapes me is shamefully akin to that of a dying man. Woman. Cat... Whatever. All I want is to smother my head with my pillow. The Colonel has a key, he'll let himself in. Maybe. He's never done it before and I get the feeling he wouldn't unless it was an emergency.

I can hear him next door and it's not difficult to imagine his movements around the room. The slide of the drawers, the creak when he sits down on his bed. If I left the pillow off my ears... yes, the metal clicking of his belt. He'll be wearing his Service Dress Uniform today. There's the scrape of his keys across the desk and jingle as he shoves them in his pocket.

Silence.

What he does in that minute of silence, I can't say. Go over his uniform? Collect his paperwork? Preen his greying- silvering, not that that was a word - hair? He has nice hair, but I doubt he's the preening type.

I wonder what it feels like.

"For crying out loud!" Now I'm delusional. I can't stop the turn of my head into the mattress below; I hold my breath for a few seconds, which worsens my cranial ache. I wanted a distraction and I got it. The vacation my mind has taken from my interesting bodyguard is cut short by the firm - and loud - rapping on my door. I take back every nice thing or remotely positive thought I ever had for the Colonel.

"Ready to go, Major?" he asks through my closed door.

All I can give him in response is a quasi audible groan of "not going today" to my pillow. I can hear those keys again and brace myself for the light he'll undoubtedly be allowing to enter my room from the hall. That bright, good-morning-sunshine, burning-my-poor-retinas light.

The turn of the lock is loud and I press my hand to my head until I'm sure it will bruise. Is it crazy that I find the pressure relieving?

The tiniest gap in my eyelids lets me see the door opening and his hand on the frame. He goes for the light switch and I want my service weapon so badly. It stops short of hitting the switch.

"You okay, Carter?"His hand moves away from the switch.

Bless you, you kind man.

I sigh with too much self pity. "I feel like crap." A little vulgar, but succinct. His fingers tap on the wall. Once. Twice.

"Can I come in?" He sounds almost friendly; where's a camera when you need it? He waits for my answer and I weigh my modesty and pride against the desire for a little assistance.

"I guess."

He slides into my room, his usual collection of folders tucked under his arm. I was right; he's wearing his Service Dress. The Colonel leaves the door just ajar, I'm guessing to preserve the warmth and darkness while permitting him to see a path towards my bed. As he passes my desk, he pulls the chair beneath it by the backrest and guides it across the floor towards me. I'm tucked against the wall, so there's ample room if he wanted to sit on the edge of my bed. Formalities and professional distance; that's my Colonel.

The chair slides to a halt at the head of my bed and he places his sheets of data - which I doubt he _really _reads - and his Service Cap at my feet. He's quite dashing in his uniform. Delusional... I'm delusional.

"You need to go to Base Medical?" he asks softly, leaning in to brush the hair from my forehead so he can touch the back of his fingers to my skin. His hands are delightfully warm. I get out a 'mm-mm' and a small, slow shake of my head. The movement makes his knuckles brush across my forehead and I know I'm truly unwell because the sensation isn't unappealing to me.

"Headache?"

I nod and his hand joins the other in his lap.

"Must be bad if you won't be working today." Finally, a man that understands! "How long have you had it?"

"Ah... Felt it coming on yesterday. I've had some painkillers but I think I'll be staying here today," I reply, mustering the stamina to open my eyes. The room is still dark enough to not aggravate my aching head, but I can see the concern on his face. It's not overwhelming him, but I can tell there's a niggling in there. He moves a leg and looks down, having clearly kicked something. Probably my drink bottle. He reaches down and - right again.; I swear I can see his future. He gives the khaki bottle a gentle shake.

"Well, I'm guessing you've been hydrating." He's correct, of course. "How much did you eat yesterday?"

Um...

No. I didn't have dinner. Or lunch for that matter. I know I'm a workaholic, but last night, I outlasted my team in overtime. Seven in the morning until nearly eleven at night. The Colonel knew where I was and brought me a sandwich at about three, but although I swore I'd stop for dinner, I never did. I don't regret it, even now. I was _this close_ to-

"Shut the door."

I've grabbed his tie which was conveniently hanging above my hand and propped myself on an elbow, pulling his head closer. I have to tell him what I'd discovered last night, or was so near to discovering when my headache forced me to bed.

The Colonel is frowning at me in confusion. Yes, my head is screaming and trying to claw its way out of my skull but I'll get over it for thirty seconds to tell him the news. The wonderful, but oh-so-secret news. There is no smile or note of mischief on my face, aside from the repressed discomfort of my current condition. He hasn't moved and I think he's going to need a little reassurance that my intentions are purely professional.

"I think I can make the device work," I whisper, pinning him with an intense stare. I see his eyes glaze over with realisation. I've heard the expression many a time, but I can see first-hand that it does _actually_ happen. His hand touches mine as I release his tie. He shuts the door and turns the light on my desk around to face the wall, then switches it on. The light is uncomfortable, but I shut my eyes for a moment and do my best to not look to that side of the room. The Colonel, in a further display of consideration, situates himself between the light and my eyes. Food for later reflection.

"You can make it work?" he asks, clearly very interested. Not in the particulars, of course; I've come to understand his distaste for 'techno babble', as he once described it. For his thoughtfulness upon entering my room, I'll spare him the gritty details.

"I think I can. Colonel..." I lifted myself into a seated position, pausing to press my hand to my head. The Colonel frowns at the action, but doesn't question it. "...Doctor Jackson came to see me last night. He has reason to believe the device once belonged to an American."

"What?"

"He said something about a private excavation in... Giza? Egypt, anyway, and that an artefact like this one was uncovered. He said that the details of the dig were apparently lost, but he's heard from some of his colleagues that the artefact was shipped to the US and owned by an American woman, who surrendered it to the military for storage. But an accident, a fire or explosion, destroyed the artifact... Colonel..." Again, I lean in and whisper, "...Is it possible they stole it from _us_?"

His eyes fall to the floor.

He knew.

I pull away a fraction, but the distance doesn't ease my pain.

"Tell me. Every bit of it; you tell me everything and don't lie to me, Colonel." I know I have no right to demand the truth, because there is a reason he's kept it from me. Another lie. He's my assistant, my bodyguard... and now a spy?

"We came to the same conclusion. The device we have here is similar to the one lost in an explosion in a warehouse in DC, in 1969. The circumstances were suspicious, but it was thirty-five years ago. Leads went cold. We weren't sent here to find stolen goods, Major. We're here to improve relations and assist their research."

"But if the theory is confirmed... Is that why you're here?"

"If they realised we knew it was stolen from us, our government wasn't sure how they'd react. But they couldn't turn down the offer. Hell, pretty much everyone working here wouldn't know it was stolen. Some of 'em wouldn't have been born."

"I was."

"I know. There's one guy here that I've been asked to watch." I frown curiously. "Colonel Chekov. His father was identified as a Russian infiltrator during the sixties."

I nod my head carefully and fall back onto my beloved pillow. "Anything else, Sir?"

"I lied last time. You can trust me to ensure your safety at all times, but you can trust me to tell you what you need to know. You have my word."

I take a moment to consider the Colonel hovering over my bed. I've struggled to read him in the past, but right now, he's wide open to me. "Alright."

~ SJ ~

_1403h_  
_20th November  
_  
"Major Carter?"

The rapid knocking on the doorframe didn't really prove too startling, but the voice turned my stomach to knots. I've been keeping up appearances with my fellow researchers, but Marko is a whole different matter. He shouldn't be, but I'll be honest here: he is. I know why he's here; it's the same reason every Saturday.

"I'll be going into town tonight; would you care to join me?"

The request comes in many forms. Usually an outing to the local bars and I've given in twice in the last two months. Although I still feel unwell, which should ease the guilt of turning him down again, my skin warms with the churning within. To lie to a man that I once considered a friend. A deliberate and carefully forged lie because I can't allow him to think he's subject to my- and the Colonel's - suspicion.

"Um... I'm still not quite one hundred percent, Marko." His face drops slightly, which is more than his stony expression normally offers. "But next week; we'll go into town next Saturday night."

The words tumble out before I can stop them. His eyes light up in lieu of a complete grin. I can't go alone with him.

"But, I'm afraid Colonel O'Neill will have to accompany us. We really aren't supposed to travel alone, especially on foreign assignment." Not a complete deception.

"I expected as much." He tilts his head in regards, though his displeasure is clear. He shoots a mischievous smile my way, "I will buy him _many_ drinks."

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that." I hope my smile isn't obvious in its strain. Oh, what have I done? I can hear the Colonel's lecture already.

"Excellent!" He stands up straighter, puffing out that chest that's too impressive and broad to ignore. F_ocus, Sam._ "Do you have plans for this afternoon?"

_No_. "Yes. Don't I always?"

"Then I shall meet you at dinner. Have a good afternoon, Doctor Carter." He gives me the usual bow of his nicely groomed head and departs with a swift turn on his heel. The office and lab is mostly empty, spare a few stragglers who lose themselves in their work as easily as I. Our Saturday shift finished at one, after all. I hear the plastics wheels slide across the linoleum floor out in the main lab and the Colonel slides into the frame of my door, his hands laced in his lap and a thoroughly disapproving scowl chiseled into his brow.

I flourish a hand and mouth a harassed "I know!"

Damn the man for mentally telegraphing a lengthy lecture into my mind.

~ SJ ~

**Next chapter: Loveliness followed by... Kaboom! Confused? Good. Stay tuned. I found my mojo and have her apprehended for questioning. My report will be on your desk ASAP. That is all.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/Ramble: I'm gonna miss these! *sniffle* who will listen to my bursts of random blabbering about the important things like work and sport and COMIC-CON? Good thing I got Live Journal. I also posted an SG video on YouTube that alludes to the alternate ending that MYOTOS will follow. In this AU, the US and USSR are walking on political eggshells with each other. Naslazhdaĭtesʹ! **

**~ 6 ~**

_2143h MSK__  
__Saturday, 27th November, 2004__  
__Lipetsk, USSR_

In preparation for tonight's outing, I'm certain I went through every single non-uniform item of clothing possible: a futile expedition really, given the weather warranted boots, jeans and my lovely thick jacket. I fell into the trap in which most women find themselves. This is too dressy, that's too casual, this isn't warm enough, they always see me in green or blue. It doesn't really matter, but it's been a long while since I've deliberately sought to please the eyes of other men.

I miss it.

So now I find myself sitting around a table with Colonel O'Neill on my right, Marko on my left and a small handful of our friendlier counterparts, including Daniel Jackson. It's fun to toy with the idea of pursuing something deeper than friendship with Daniel, but I know I'd have as much luck with either of the men sitting beside me. Zip. But that's fine. There is safety in the regulations.

"I'm going to the bar; would you like another drink?" Marko asks, pulling me from my musings. My glass is still half full.

"Thank you, but I'm fine," I give me glass of Merlot a gentle wiggle.

I didn't expect this to become a habit, but it has. I normally wouldn't drink wine, but every time the occasion arises - infrequently, I assure you - in which the Colonel and I have a drink together, we order the same. If he's willing to play along, then so am I. I'm also starting to notice some of his 'bodyguard behaviours'; the way he'll always run off to go to the bathroom upon arriving at a new venue, when I know he's checking exits. I've also caught him inspecting my drinks, but not on every occasion.

In Marko's absence, Daniel takes accommodation of the seat beside me. Clearly he's had more than one drink, which is more than enough to loosen his tongue and increase his laughter.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Daniel..." I give him my best 'I'm listening' look and take a long sip of my drink. Once Daniel gets started, he's difficult to stop.

"I had an idea."

"And what's this idea of yours?"

"You know the thing..."

I smile widely and shake my head, "I probably do Daniel, but you'll have to be a little more specific."

Daniel lifts his beer and begins to draw a circle in the condensation left on the chipping vinyl table top. "That thing we like to look at during the day." His eyes come up to mine, only to drop down to the table while he continues to shape the tiny puddle. The artefact. 'Stargate' as Daniel had managed to identify it. He's being discreet, but the fact that he's brought this up _here _makes me question his sobriety.

"I know the one, Daniel. Can this wait until later?" I say in a quieter voice, in spite of the lack of attention we were receiving from our Soviet friends. I can feel the Colonel's eyes burning the back of my neck. He may not be looking, but he'd certainly be listening.

"Probably... Forget it."

A flash of sober concern glistens in his eyes and inflames my curiosity. I regret silencing him. Fortunately, he isn't so willing to give up his effort to relay whatever important information that's concerning him.

"It's a bit cold in here," he rubs his shoulder and looks to the fireplace across the room, "really need something to fire it up."

My brow twitches in a frown. Does he know something I don't? The thought momentarily offends my intellect but then again, Daniel is not only an expert of ancient cultures and dialects, but modern ones too. He picks up nuances of speech and behaviour that my own inspection cannot.

I jump at Marko's booming voice behind me.

"You will play Pyramid, Major Carter?" his hand on my shoulder urging me towards the billiard table. I can see the Colonel putting his drink on the table and begin to rise, but the wave of my hand sees him settle back into his seat. I'm still learning Moscow Pyramid and I wasn't completely keen on playing tonight, but Marko's never _really_given me reason to worry. His ability to make the men currently using the table surrender it without protest does tie a knot in my stomach. I must scold myself for this apprehension! I'm an Air Force Major; I've earned my place beside very capable and commanding men. That sounds remarkably similar to the mantra I once used to spare my self esteem whenever I realised how much power Jonas had over me.

I find pyramid like a backwards game of billiards, at least where the colours are concerned. The cue ball is red and the rest are white, and depending on which variation of the game you're playing, the rules dramatically change. We're halfway through the game when Marko brings me up short with a sudden change of subject. At one point we're relaying some holiday memories, the next; he's close behind me with a serious warning.

"I would not be trying to make it work."

It takes me a moment to figure out to what he was referring. "What?"

"You know what I'm talking about, Major..."

"Why not? Tell me why I should stop trying."

"When refined, the compound gains significant characteristics that would be very useful in the wrong hands." He offers me the cue and continues to give his interest to our game, despite the nature of our conversation.

"Whose hands?"

"_Ours_." I fumble on the cue ball; looking down the table I see Jack watching me. Something in my expression must have aroused his suspicion because his cold demeanour quickly thaws. "Stop pushing, Captain. Accept that you will not make it work. It will not be allowed."

"But I can, I can make it work..." The words fall from my lips like water off a table's edge. Marko's silence frightens me. Eventually it breaks. His stern glare across the table falters and is replaced with conflict. I can almost hear the gears turning and the loud screech as they halt and his jaw tightens in resolve.

"It is getting late and I must not keep you. We need to return to base."

~ SJ ~

I should tell the Colonel. I have to. He needs to know exactly what Marko told me. It's hard to contain myself while the Russian in question is walking behind me, albeit engrossed in serious conversation with another female Officer. Given his determined silence, my Colonel is listening in. _My Colonel._

"Good night Major, Colonel," Marko bids us with a firm nod. "I will see you at breakfast."

"Goodnight, Captain Mikheyev," I reply quietly. The Soviets disappear into the sprinkling snow until only the back of their black boots can be seen. Without hesitation, I grab the Colonel's sleeve and pull him into the dark corridor just inside our building.

"They're trying to refine the compound for weapons."

"What?" I'm not sure if he is confused by my rushed statement or understands my meaning perfectly.

"I mean, he didn't exactly spell it out for me, but that's the most obvious answer."

"Captain Mikheyev told you this?"

"Yes."

His features are shrouded in darkness but I can make out the deepening of his frown and the flare of his nostrils when he sighs pensively. He raises his wrist and presses a button on the side of his watch to illuminate the face. It's after midnight.

A faint light moving high on the wall behind the Colonel attracts our attention to the entrance. Two vehicles are slowly moving down the road towards our building. When they kill their headlights and the engines about a hundred yards away, I feel the Colonel's hand on my stomach, pushing me flush against the wall beside him.

No one has exited the vehicle yet, but I catch a glimpse of a shadow passing between two adjacent buildings.

His grip on my wrist is like a vice and I feel a pop in my shoulder when he begins pulling me down the corridor, passing our rooms.

"We gotta go," is all he says to me. I've got enough combat experience to detect the danger he senses, but I'm not sure I like being dragged around like a damsel in distress.

We carefully skid to a crouched halt at the opposite end of the accommodation block and the Colonel raises a finger, asking for silence. Again, I am pressed into the wall beside the door and his open hand orders me to stay. I will _oblige _him- Damnit! The man's trying to protect me; I need to shut up my newly awakened defiance. As a precaution, I pull the scarf around my neck up to cover my mouth, earning an approving nod from Colonel O'Neill. He beckons me to his side with a tilt of his head.

"Level three, hand to hand. Still remember?" he whispers so quietly I have to lean in to hear. I nod slowly. It's been a while but I was once an excellent fighter. "Good. Stay here."

He's out the door like a ghost, leaving me hugely vexed. I am not useless!

My anger will have to wait; there is a commotion outside. Frantic crunching of boots and snow. A grunt and a distinct snapping of bone that makes me want to twitch. It's the ping of a suppressed weapon discharging that causes me to lose my balance. In the same instant, I moved to stand and then crouch lower. The result is my knee hitting the door and pushing it open a fraction. I only get a few seconds to look at the man laying on in the snow... _the snow_. The blood looks black in the pale moon light. Snowflakes land on the growing puddle and disappear in the warming sludge.

There is another one only a few feet away.

I don't get the opportunity to ponder his demise because I'm being pulled very quickly to my feet, which slide on the wet cement.

It's unusually dark but we weave and glide between the buildings easily. How often has the Colonel traipsed these paths? He would know this base like the back of his hand by now. I hope. Lights begin to ignite in our building and outside, forcing us into the shadows. It doesn't escape that the Colonel is now carrying a sidearm, which I assume he took from one of the men who tried to enter our building. He's also picked up a small branch off the ground, most likely to attempt to conceal our tracks.

It's a quarter of a mile to the nearest part of the perimeter, across a flat and very open pasture. The risk would be too great. I point towards an enclosed yard that homes a lot of the disused armaments and vehicles in need of a service. After much cursing and forceful persuasion, the Colonel separates the chained gates enough for us to squeeze through. There is an increase in commotion and I'm immediately looking for a place to hide. A large pile of tyres against the fence that is covered by a thick green canvas catches my eye. The Colonel must agree because he follows my lead. It takes a joint effort to manoeuvre the canvas without disturbing the snow covering it, but we are soon underneath.

My mind is racing, but offering little sense. What happened?

I know what happened... sort of. I'd hate to think it was Marko's warning that catalysed the sudden turn in events. In likelihood it was, but _would _he have said something? Did one of the other Officers overhear us? What were they going to do to us if they managed to catch us? I admit, I'm impressed with the man lying beside me. I'm not sure if he killed both men, but I clearly haven't given him enough credit. He's been relatively inert since our arrival, but has sprung into silent action beautifully.

"What about Daniel?" I whisper to Jack, my breath shuddering with a full-bodied shiver.

"If he's lucky, he'll just get shipped home... We can't do anything about it."

We sit in cold silence for... I might guess about an hour, before a siren sounds throughout the base and the tumult outside escalates.

"We can't stay." I hear the canvas move and the way his speech changes, he must have turned his head towards me. "Ready to run?"

From your mouth, Colonel... "Only if you can keep up, Sir."

~ SJ ~

**Finishing off the last chapter of 'Meet You On The Other Side'. Your emotions will become my playthings *Evil grin* And thank you everyone for reminding me that Sam is a Major. I will be updating sooner from now on. Such a large gap is unacceptable.**

**MUAHAHAHA**

**AWWWW :O scandalised!**  
**I'm leaving this in!**

**Readers: Don't ask. Ignore us.**


End file.
